Monday or Tuesday - Virginia Woolf
7:35 da tarde
I want to dance, laugh, eat pink cakes, yellow cakes, drink thin, sharp
wine. Or an indecent story, now - I could relish that. The older one
grows the more one likes indecency.
I
want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted,
never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to
another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink
deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts.
Os oito contos que compõem este pequeno livro trazem-nos crítica à sociedade (ainda aplicada aos dias de hoje), um fantástico ainda que súbtil sentido de humor, uma análise de pequenos detalhes do quotidiano que por vezes nos são tão queridos e por aí adiante.
But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking?—the entombed
soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self
that took the veil and left the world—a coward perhaps, yet somehow
beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark
corridors. 'I can bear it no longer,' her spirit says. 'That man at
lunch—Hilda—the children.' Oh, heavens, her sob! It's the spirit wailing
its destiny, the spirit driven hither, thither, lodging on the
diminishing carpets—meagre footholds—shrunken shreds of all the
vanishing universe—love, life, faith, husband, children, I know not what
splendours and pageantries glimpsed in girlhood. Not for me—not for me.
O feminismo é tema frequente, sem que se torne central à narrativa mas entrelaçando-se na mesma com candura.
Don’t you know that our belief in man’s intellect is the greatest
fallacy of them all?” “What?” I exclaimed. “Ask any journalist,
schoolmaster, politician or public house keeper in the land and they
will all tell you that men are much cleverer than women.” “As if I
doubted it,” she said scornfully. “How could they help it? Haven’t we
bred them and fed and kept them in comfort since the beginning of time
so that they may be clever even if they’re nothing else? It’s all our
doing!” she cried.
Ainda há por aí alguém com medo da Sra. Woolf?
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